


(Don't) Plant Basilicum

by PlunnyBreeder



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, Multi, Planned, Plans? What plans? -nervous laughter-, Slight!AU, bc it spoiled a bit too much for my liking, big helpings of hurt and angst yay, changed summary, i dunno tbh, send help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlunnyBreeder/pseuds/PlunnyBreeder
Summary: You reap what you sow, but he never had a green thumb- in both of his lives. Is it still gardening if he didn't even know he planted seeds? No real plants were harmed in the making of the metaphors. Canon though? We don't talk about canon.





	1. once upon a little bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of snapshots of everyday life on Mafia Land, featuring not-so-everyday occurrences and Federico I-have-more-middle-names-than-you Vongola, self-proclaimed Paperwork Whiz.
> 
> Word Count: 2350

“Push! Push! You push!”

Anne-Marie, ‘Call me Ann, hunk!’, grits her teeth in effort not to screech at that fake-happy nurse to shut the fuck up. No  _ shit _ is she supposed to push if she wants that little bastard outta there. A small part of her wonders if she would have gotten better service at the Centrals. She doesn’t actually think so, ass-kissers are everywhere. Or rather the mindset of social survival. It’s nothing personal- just annoying to deal with.

Not that she could afford it in the first place, but it was nice to dream once or thrice in a while. And that dream was in the reach of her grabby hands- or rather in her vagina.

The head midwife finally took pity on the former prostitute, choosing between a job she could always return to or a chance of a luxurious life was an easily done, and snapped some sharp words in that bitch's direction. Ann curses the timing of that contraction, she would have  _ loved _ and welcomed new additions to her vocabulary.

What a shitty ‘hospital’.

* * *

 

On July 28 0Y B.T.B. (Before Tsunayoshi's Birth), in Mafia Land's South-Eastern Central Hospital, a baby girl arrived into this world.

We don't care for the baby girl, who is born to a set of ecstatic, powerful parents; No.

Let's focus on the place located between the Hilarity Highway, the semi-ring on the southern part of the moving island that is set like normal amusement park á la mafia style, the Alcohol Avenue of the Gastronomic Piazza, the Body Borough (fondly nicknamed for the many crime guilds, weapon shops and similar that settled there), and between the Western Central Hospital: Love Lane.  
(Which, as you might guess from the name, is an one-way street known for its prostitution facilities.)

If you metaphorically zoom in, you might notice a prostitute awkwardly holding her newborn son at a private hospital.  
That infant was named Angelo. No last name.  
(People like her are better off without last names.)

One probably won't see another prostitute giving childbirth anytime soon, because while it is not uncommon, most choose to abort due to their work if they get impregnated.  
Unless the you're popular and/or the manager has a soft spot for you, you _will_ be fired.

Why don't they just use protection?  
Only those with incurable/hard to cure STDs are _required_ to use protection. If they violate that law, yes, it's an actual law, they suffer reputation loss for lack of self-control, a huge fine, and a lifetime ban from the Love Lane.  
And if you book a worker, you must show your Mafia Land ID, ML-ID in short.

Sometimes, a prostitute might fall in _love_ and birth the child, hoping to bind the customer to them.  
(This rarely ends well.)  
Sometimes, a prostitute will birth the child for the same reasons, just without the love part.  
(Also rarely ends well.)

Why would they do such a painful thing _without_ the 'love-part'?

Easy answer: The sperm donor is rich and/or powerful. And which powerful and/or rich man wouldn't keep an eye out for future heirs or spares? Keep in mind, that all the customers are related to crime in some way or another.

A ticket to luxury!

So, the first-time mom resolves to raise her bastard child, which is not that great of an insult if you ask her, if not for one huge problem.

How do you contact the sperm donor in question?

According to rumors, the fourth son of Timoteo Vongola, Xanxus, is a bastard as well.  
So how did the 'co-worker' inform the Famiglia?

When should she inform them? It would make her a target for the syndicates enemies. She's already under scrutiny for giving birth.  
Should she inform them at all?

"I reckon I'll cross that bridge when the time comes." She whispers to her little bastard. He yawns cutely. "Right, Angelo?"

And with that, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

"Mamma." She slowly repeats herself, staring into the same blue eyes as her own. "Mamma."

Angelo tilts his head. "Mwa?"

She smiles. "It's progress, I believe."

Her maternal instincts were awoken, and they are already growing stronger than expected.

Shit.

'Well,' she reassures herself. 'It is beneficial to have a strong bond later on, so a little more caring won't hurt, right?'

She took multiple part-time jobs at cafés and stores, and as soon as she could, she will take a better paying full-time with contract.

"Mwamwa!" Angelo confidently states, making grabbing motions towards her.

She beams, blue eyes softening. "That's my boy! My little bastard, you!"

At the least things are better now than before.

**…**

'Well, there are things that never change, I presume.' She dryly comments in her mind. 'Especially those overly chummy, obnoxious butts.'

"Aw, c'mon Bella! Just give me your number!" the customer leers. "I'll promise we'll have a _good time_ , if you know what I mean."

'It's too bad I'm still a part-timer.' She continues to muse, half-heartedly jotting down the low-level Mafioso's orders and ignoring the continuous stream of poor innuendos and pick-up lines.  
'If I work full-time here they would tolerate if I _handle_ a customer or two. Or five. Maybe.'

"Listen, here you bitch. I am making advances at you so why aren't you responding?!" The grunt, it's a low-level grunt, otherwise he wouldn't have finally lost his patience so easily, shouts. "Are you implying I'm not good enough for you, huh?"

'I am not _implying_ anything, asshat.' She thinks spitefully.

From the sounds of the snickers and the dull throbbing of her left cheek, she must have said that out loud.

Ice-cold fury spreads out within her. How _dare_ he cost her the job?! She _needs_ the money and this absolutely fugly asshole just ruined a major income source.

"Listen here, butt face." She grits out. "Even if you _were_ good enough for me, which you are not even remotely close to, you need to work on your horrible attitude. It's a truly tragic miracle that you weren't killed, or at least gotten some sense beaten into you yet, by your superiors. You are costing me my most successful job so far, and-"

"Aha! 'Successful job so far', huh?" he pounces at the weakness, smiling sadistically. "Looks like someone is in need for money. C'mon, I'll even pay you properly for your services."

"Even a former prostitute wouldn't sleep with you." She respondes icily, making a quick ponytail out of her long brown hair so it won't get in the way. "Have you glanced in a mirror or did you think it was smudged by your oh-so _manly_ fumes? Because that would be fucking revolting, which you are- fucking revolting. Now it all makes sense!"

And with that, she roars and punches him deliberately on the nose.  
The resounding crack and muffled profanities are music to her ears.

Murmurings break out, some sneer at her while others wolf-whistle. The majority just ignore the commotion with ease.  
( _Please_ , this is Mafia Land.)

The owner came to scrutinize the commotion. "What in the Vindicare's name is going on here- oh."

He narrows his eyes, sighing in disgust.

"…Sorry boss." She mumbled under her breath, trying to fight back tears at the idea of failing the spawn of hers just because she couldn't shut her fucking mouth _for once_ -

"Not this daft arsehole again."

"…huh?"

"Yes, I know this manky tosser." He elaborates. "He's the one that harassed my sister some weeks ago, I remember clearly of banning him from here."

"Huh," she blinkes, cautiously hopeful. "That's great news. I'll take that as I'm not going to get fired?"

"Nope."

"Do you want to do a number on him before or after me?"

"Ladies first."

"Damn, your sister's lucky." She sighs wistfully, ignoring the twinge of bitterness. "Maybe you should take the opportunity and offer discounts for snacks and drinks."

His brown eyes twinkle. "Good idea, Anne-Marie. Consider yourself promoted" He turns to the spectators. "You heard that? Discounts on snacks and drinks! Each item's price in the category is halved!"

**…**

"Mamma had an awesome day today!" Anne-Marie coos at Angelo.

"Mwamwa!"

"Yes, I'm 'Mwamwa', and you're my little bastard Angelo!"

Angelo shrieks in delight when she blew him on the nose.

"'Mwamwa' is very sorry for drawing attention to herself. She needs to find herself a gun fast! Or a very sturdy crowbar. That also works, plus, it's cheaper."

She tries to squash the warmth filling her chest. She's just taking precautions, and it will increase her chances with the Vongola, if she can defend herself better than the basic standard training one receives as a Mafia Land resident and prostitute.

"Now c'mon! It's nom-nom time!" she coos again.

**…**

In a back alley, a drunk, beaten up form of a man stirs.

"That…bitch…is… -ugh!" He throws up, before continuing to cuss hatefully under his breath, eyes glinting sharp from malice despite the intoxication.

Unnoticed, a specter-like, bandaged man appears from pure black, and wrapps the drunkard in chains.

He is gone before one knew it, without a single rattle or clink of his chains, leaving only the vomit and blood as a trace that something was there to be taken.

But it doesn't matter, since no one will be looking for him long.  
(Or looking for him at all.)

There are _always_ enough people who'll work on Mafia Land. One way or another

* * *

Memories are bizarre, fickle things.

Some wish they are always crystal clear.  
Others would love to drown theirs in alcohol and other drugs.

Sometimes, they comply, appearing on demand.  
Other times, one has to examine every millimeter of the area to find _that damn pen!_

And not-so-occasionally, one accidentally substitutes an authentic memory with a self-crafted one. Maybe through denial, maybe through imagination; No matter. It's gone.

Memories are unreliable, but everyone still depends on them.  
Our whole identity and experiences are directly linked to them.

Memories really are bizarre, fickle things.

But when I one day found myself in a toddler's body with a single mother, underwent a sex change (Angelo is an obviously male name), and surrounded by a foreign language (probably Italian or Spanish, maybe even French), I didn't complain or bitch around.  
(Much.)

After all, Death is still a terrifying concept, even if I most likely went through the experience already.

**…**

'Angelo' didn't magically become ' _Angelo_ ' in an instant.

No, the transition from a fleshbag to an organism with a sense of identity and personality came gradually.  
Baby-step by baby-step, one could say.

The flesh bag first began to sleep more, the brain activity sapping away energy, to prepare and cope for the realization, memories, and mature mindset.

Thus, the infant spent more time asleep than awake.

Anne-Marie doesn't complain. She is glad that she didn't have a fussy child, and could use the time to work more and job-hunt.

(I wonder how she would have reacted if she knew what was going on?)

* * *

Federico I-have-more-middle-names-than-you Vongola sighs, twirling his pen around and around.

Paperwork is his forte, believe it or not, and he _likes_ to help dad and his brothers, but-

He can't.

Whether he wants it or not, he is the youngest and least proficient of his brothers- even if one includes paperwork related skills. The only reason why he was given the standard respect of a boss candidate, is because he is favoured, for a reason unknown to him, by dad. And maybe his popularity since he likes to help others with their dreaded paperwork.  
(And if there are lots of side-benefits, such as gathering information and lessening animosity, well, who was he to complain?)

And Xanxus, the only one who doesn't bother hiring secretaries or such, and usually gives him the biggest number of tasks, has been avoiding him lately.

The self-proclaimed Paperwork-Whiz runs through late interactions that could have caused this change in their relationship.  
(He finds none.)

But if he remembers correctly, Xanxus has been acting odd in general; not being his asshole-but-still-a-softie self.

He decides to talk to his dad when he has the time. Oh no, wait, wasn't he working on the negotiations with the Cavallone Famiglia? Then it would be horrendously bad timing if he disturbs dad while stressed.

It still leaves one question unanswered: Who shall he confide in?

(Character changes of unknown cause is a dangerous potential security breach in the world of a criminal's; even more so in a _prestigious_ crime syndicate.

Traitors aren't given second chances.)

Federico I-have-more-middle-names-than-you Vongola closes his eyes, futilely hoping, that maybe, it was just his mind playing tricks on him.  
(He ignores the sinking feeling in his gut; his intuition mourning with him.)

* * *

The crowbar whizzes through the air, the sunlight reflecting from the metal blinding her momentarily.

That moment is enough.

"Up!" the instructor barkes. "You think this is adequate? A _civilian_ granny can do better than you!"

"Sir!" Anne-Marie quickly picks herself up from the ground, ignoring the way her muscles scream and bruises moan.

Wolfgang smirks. She tenses. What's next on the torturous schedule? Another beat down? Running laps?

"Stretch. I want you to be more flexible than a rubber band when I come back, do you understand?"

She groans internally. "Sir!"

'Angelo, you better appreciate this.'

**…**

"Wolfgang being a hard-ass again?"

Anne-Marie just sighs. "You know it, boss."

He pats her shoulder, and then she continues to wipe the tables.

A quiet clang makes her look up. "It's Luke when off shift."

She sips the tea gratefully, glad that the probability of poison was small. "Thanks Luke."

Anne-Marie doesn't ask for a last name. No one asks for a last name on Mafia Land.  
(Or at least not the ones that matter much.)

"Y'know, this would go great with some lemon juice. Maybe even some zest. Healthier choices and all that."

"Earl Grey- more lemon-y. Noted. Increase by 0.5?"

"Nah, 0.3. Wouldn't want to drive your less fortunate customers away after all."

No one comments that she belongs to the less fortunate ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because every fandom has it's OC!*insert character* fics, and this fandom is lacking Basilicums, I just decided to hit two birds with one stone. (...I just hope I actually get to finish the metaphorical birds off with this.)
> 
> (Edit: 07.05.2017 - Scene added, Chapter Summary changed)


	2. a hellspawn stops by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly snapshots of one awesome mom and mafioso being mafioso being mafioso. (Or men being men being men.)
> 
> Word Count: 2028

Federico needs a sugar-water-with-fancy-name badly, so he’s getting himself one.  
(If only all problems can be solved that easily.)

He rings the bell and instructs the servant to buy it for him, and to put extra lemon juice in there, then turns to the fiasco in paper form that is just waiting to be done by him. 

It only goes worse from there; The status has been upgraded from ‘fiasco in paper from’ to ‘one messy clusterfuck that you better sort out fast’. 

Federico sighs and calls for an emergency meeting.  
(He dreads it, he doesn’t know how to handle the Xanxus-thingamajig on top of _this_.)

**...**

Anne-Marie already knows this, but she wants to verbalize it anyway.

“I’m fucked. You are fucked. We are fucked.”

“Sorry, you’re not my type. Plus, I prefer dudes more anyway, so no offense.”

Alright then. _Fine_.

“I, Anne-Marie, am the only one out of the two of us where the urban term ‘being fucked’ applies, due to the fact that I am not sufficiently trained, with relatively little fighting experience, and also too stubborn to part with this wonderful piece of metal known as a ‘crowbar’ to the rest of the populace. Happy now?”

“Very.” Wolfgang deadpans.

And together, they dully watch the island being invaded by the Rain Arcobaleno.

Anne-Marie certainly _did not_ have this scenario in mind when waking up this morning…

Nope. She certainly didn’t.

In fact, the morning had, in the name of all that is cliché, started off in the way that one would not expect something _that_ unusual to happen.

But the popular civilian concept ‘Murphy’s Law’ is a wrinkly dick.  
(There were several incidents that almost completely revealed the crime world and dragged whole towns and the occasional city into this unkind life due to Murphy. _Accidentally_ , of course.  
The Vindice are still miffed whenever this topic comes up, though they will still stay their completely professional and terrifying selves.)

**…**

Angelo is a quiet baby, and Anne-Marie isn’t sure if she should rejoice or get wasted.  
But since her- no _their_ , she has Angelo now, finances are nothing to be proud of, being wasted is sadly not an option.

She would have never thought that she would be _glad_ when Angelo would wake up. He spent most of his time sleeping, and no matter how often Luke reassures her that Angelo is completely fine, she can’t help but worry.

Her grip tightens on her Nokia 3310. “You didn’t forget his favorite plushy, right?”

“The dolphin one?” his voice came from the speaker.

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “And quieter please.”

Luke makes a sound of confirmation and doesn’t ask; Paranoia is almost a compliment on Mafia Land, just like in the rest of their world, even if drug and slavery rings are forbidden here.

“Do you want the baby formula with the calcium or the one with the vitamin D supplements? Same price.”

She frowns.

Luke must have heard it from the silence and explains what they unfamiliar terms are.

“The first one, please. Just let Angelo nap in the sun a while or two.”

“Sure thing.”

Anne-Marie verbalizes her gratitude and makes her way to her next session.

**…**

“How’s life going Wolfgang, hey?” the Rain Arcobaleno greets them cheerfully.

“Not very good since you showed up.” Wolfgang grunts, ignoring Anne-Marie’s incredulous stare at the causality between them. “You damaged my favorite bar.”

“Oh really, hey?” The hellspawn muses. “I deliberately didn’t attack the Alcohol Avenue, since I knew all them maggots are going to need it when I’m done with this whole thing, hey!”

“The owner was a bit of a loner in that regard.”

“Apologies then, hey. I just wanted the job.”

That, Anne-Marie can numbly sympathize with; job-hunting _sucks_.  
But wreaking havoc on the Gastronomic Piazza, parts of the Body Borough and Hilarity Highway, Love Lane, and Chance Track because of it?

“You’re barmy.” The thought slips between her lips before she can stop herself.

The bird carrying the not-baby screeches at her and the hellspawn frowns. “That’s not nice, hey!”

If the Anne-Marie could travel back in time to prevent a disaster just waiting to occur, this is the key moment.  
(She doesn’t have time-bending powers. But she _does_ have a mouth on auto-speak and a brain on auto-suicidal due to shock, so she actually _replies_.)

“Well, guess what; Being a single mother and job-hunting while needing to suck up to even worse assholes than you is also _not nice_.” She drawls out the last two words mockingly, gripping her crowbar so tightly her hands were starting to bleed. “Do you even _realize_ what effects your rampage has caused?”

Wolfgang shoots her a concerned look. Colonello merely looks at her with an unreadable face.

She trembles, her numbness fading to sheer horror, but glares at him anyway.

“How old is yer spawn?”

“W-What?”

“Your child. Kiddo, Niño, Kind, Enfant, 孩子-”

“Why the _fuck_ would I tell you?” she hisses.

He relents. “True, hey.”

Wolfgang coughs into his fist. “That was awesome and all, but please get on your way?”

“Alright, alright. I see when I’m not wanted,” the Asshole Hellspawn™ grumbled. “It was nice to see you again, hey. Bye!”

Anne-Marie listlessly witnesses the bird along with the Arcobaleno becoming smaller, and lets out a long shaky breath.

The last thing she sees is Wolfgang annoyed face.

**...**

"What the hell were you _thinking_?!” Luke hollers once they have something resembling privacy, and Angelo’s eyes start watering on cue. “That’s right- Not A _Single_ Fucking Bit.”

Anne-Marie just hugs Angelo tighter and buries her face in his soft hair he must have inherited from his father.

Wolfgang eyes the furious barkeeper speculatively, as if he just found out he found out yesterday’s leftovers are still edible and hygienic to eat- with Luke featuring as the leftovers.

Angelo’s wails and Luke’s heavy breaths are the are the only sound during the painful silence.

“...sorry.” She lamely offers, and winces even as the word is leaving the safety of her mouth, becoming sound for him to hear and comprehend.

“ _Sorry_ she says,” he scoffs. “Try to say that to Angelo!”

The namely mentioned sniffles, uncomprehending and scared of what was happening.  
This was clearly underhanded play.  
(But they’re mafia, ‘fair’ should be in their vocabulary as little as possible.)

Thus, she just rocks Angelo wordlessly and strokes his dirty-blond wisps.

Luke’s glower lessens a bit after Wolfgang rubbed soothing circles on his back. “Oh, and one thing; Don’t bother showing up at work until you’re adequate.”

And with that, he storms out of the room.

Anne-Marie knows he means well and that he’s right- doesn’t mean she has to like it.  
(But he is correct and she should do what he said.)

“Hey, Wolfgang.”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s my crowbar?”

**...**

“You got the job, Signore Colonello. 

“Of course I did, hey. Got a place where they serve good cola? And make it La- lemon-flavored, please.”

The agent stutters out the name of a fancy brand instead, it’s the favorite of Signore Federico, and that must count for something, right?

Luckily, the newly hired guard looks contemplative.

(Looks like his habit of looking longingly at fancy nourishment finally paid off.  
Now, if he could only explain that to his employer...)

**...**

It fully hits Wolfgang while paying for his beers 

Luke not-so-accidentally volunteered him for training Anne-Marie, who maybe pissed off Colo, the grinning-monster trainer, painfully sweet boy-toy of Lal, and Nightmare Hellspawn™.

He doesn’t tip Luke this time, in fact, he doesn’t pay him at all, and said barkeep doesn’t look surprised nor regretful in the least; even had the gall to smirk at him!

Wolfgang glares at him and stalks out of the establishment, fuck him and his fitting apron. Pray tell, _why_ is this bar his favorite again?

He thinks of the beers, smirk, and apron. Right.  
This probably says a lot about his personality, but he couldn’t bring himself to care for it _more_ than caring for the metaphorical headaches the woman’s going to cause.

Shit. He didn’t post his offer up there with _this_ in mind, nor did he think of _this_ when strolling into the bar the first time either.

* * *

 

Angelo likes Alfin!

He also likes the funny-smelling guy that played with him!

He doesn’t like the scary-guy as much, though. But he smiled and patted him on the head once, so he’s accepted on his people-that-are-alright list!

Wait, what is a list? And ac-cep-ting? Didn’t he just say- no think, _accepted_?

Of course Angelo knows what a list and being accepted means, he learned that with dad!

Dad? What’s that? _Who’s_ that?  
The person that fucked mom and made delicious pancakes. Who (tried) to teach you how to play soccer, and massaged your head when you were sick. He convinced mom to let you play that tin-can-throw-ball-win-prize game at the market, where you won a dolphin plushy.

So many of the words are weird… But a dolphin plushy is like Alfin, right! He sounds like a good can-di-date for the list!  
He is. He is _dad_. Angelo _knows_ him. He _misses_ him.

Angelo doesn’t know him.  
He does, he _loves_ him. He _loves_ him in the same way he _loves_ mom, Vic, mamma, and… dad?

They all sound _lovely_. They are all _not here_.  
Not here.

Angelo’s blue eyes focuses sharply on his plushy, and opens his mouth to scream for _them_.  
He falls asleep before he could do that.

* * *

 

Iemetsu runs his hands through his short hair.

Tsunayoshi and Nana. Nana and Tsunayoshi.  
(Nana. Tunafishie.)

Fuck.  
(He had to erase five who recognized him as the Young Lion, _in this week_.)

It’s Thursday.

Fuck his ‘promotion’ as the CEDEF-leader to hell and back. _Fuck_ it. _Why_ \- just _why_ \- did he accept it?

(“I know what we could do!” she smiles, brighter than the sunlight reflected on bazillion diamonds made from the infinite spring of their sappiness. “I’m just going to sell the bake-” “ _No._ ”)

No.  
(No. But he couldn’t stop her.)

Fuck.

He steps under the march sunshine. It doesn’t make him feel warmer.  
(March sun never does.)

“Liar,” he whispers to it- or rather to himself? Both work.  
(‘Work’.)

His throat isn’t abnormally hoarse from sobbing or bile, his eyes aren’t stinging from tears.  
(Just like when he as disposed of the five security breaches.)

But he still feels sick inside; Unable to see anything else than his wife tired smile while holding Tsunayoshi three years ago on 3:27AM, October 14.

(He doesn’t remember the 'résumé' content of Turmeric, who despite his appearance has a _really_ fond spot for kids.  
He doesn’t remember that Oregano _loves_ to bake for letting off stress either.)

A bitter smile lines his features, and he continues basking in the (lying) sunlight.

* * *

 

“Does this really have to be so dark?”

“Stop whining. It’s training for all kinds of circumstances.”

“Why are the bats and sharp stone thingies here then?” Anne-Marie drawls. “I doubt I’ll go to a cave anytime soon.”

Wolfgang doesn’t bother stopping his eyes from rolling, it’s not like she can see it. “Don’t ask me, ask the abductors. The one’s I’ve met mostly preferred caves for some reason.”

It doesn’t escape her that he used past tense.

The rest of the session runs smoothly, mostly.  
(Her performance could mainly use some work; Let’s ignore her blabbing mouth for now.)

He didn’t even have to use the story of how he escaped from the abductors either.

(‘It’s a good day,’ he thinks, while sipping the cold beer Luke _kindly_ sponsored for the duration of _this_.)

* * *

The next time Angelo opens his mouth to scream with _them_ in mind, he doesn’t fall asleep as if by some higher power.

It conveniently happens the first time he’s being taught how to swim, and the spot seven meters left from him explodes in a storm of heat, sand, steam, smoke, and shrapnel. 

The rest of the day is spent with him crying in the waiting room of the hospital.  
Luke, Wolfgang, and Alfin are also waiting.

It helps, but not by a large margin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really confuddled with myself... What's up with this chapter?  
> Both Colonello and Iemetsu were not supposed to happen, as it is with Wolfgang. (Or at least not get that long of a part.)  
> What is it with blond fighters and their way of blasting through my plans??? I actually made a really good plan (kinda), of which I'm proud of (also kinda), and then they come and ruin /everything/.  
> Shite. (Though there wasn't that much to ruin, but still. Why you do this to me?)  
> WolfgangxLuke was not supposed to happen. Colonello was not supposed to happen. Iemetsu was not supposed to happen for a long, long time.  
> They used up all of my brain juice for this chapter... I have very little left to correct the tenses of last chapter, I decided to use present tense as the main tense, just so I've said this.  
> So, if you find some weird tenses, feel free to say it.


	3. for the crucial parts of leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne-Marie died. Silence has never been so painful, but leaving often is.
> 
> Word Count: 1742

Bianchi knows that she’s supposed to be a doll, and that she’s cared for. Not everyone cares for their dolls after all; So, she should be, no become, out of gratitude, what they want from her. A plaything. A toy. She knows everything about playthings and toys. She’s the doll, sorry daughter, of a mafia boss after all. They are disposable, entertaining, and easily to become attached to according to their quality and sentimentality and other uncountable variables that come along as part of the feelings-spielings package.

She’s seen her mother, thrown away as soon her father fell in _love_ at first sight with that piano player.

(If that’s love, _true love at that_ , she’s going to find herself someone better. Nothing against Hayato’s mother, but dolls aren’t unbreakable, and while being broken by the owner hurts, she shouldn’t bother herself with someone who can’t even protect their toys from others. Car accident her already fine _ass_.)

But that’s alright, because her mother was just another doll. A mannequin to be given away in exchange for power and hollow promises of forced loyalty through the new bond between the two families.

So, if she’s a doll, what is Hayato?

He’s the heir. The new plaything, to not replace, but to overshadow her. Bianchi doesn’t really mind at all, because that means she can have a bit more air to breathe. Shadows have a greater surface area than the origin, depending on the angle of the light source, right?

Bianchi is not without manners, though. Hayato likes cookies, right? Well, he’ll get some cookies. And she’ll even throw in parts of the feelings-spielings package in it by baking them herself.

Her attempts are horrendous. Looks like **leaving** this kitchen was not as simple as she thought...

(Maybe she shouldexpress her gratitude by giving him a hug instead.

Oho? Are those macarons _fresh_?)

* * *

Even though the march sun doesn’t change her perceptive of temperature much, the light breeze certainly does, playing with the few strands of her hair that aren’t secured in her side-braid. She allows herself a short glance at the brilliant blue sky, admiring the vivid color and hues of white, before quickening her steps to her destination and zipping up her jacket.

The pavement looks brand new and shows no signs of wear, as well as none of the typical weeds growing through the cement. Anne-Marie feels a bit saddened by that, but at least it looks way more cleaner. Her toes curl around her sandals, and she suppresses the urge to take a deep breath to steady her nerves.

The door doesn’t creak like last time, the furnitures were all replaced, and the window shutters open without noise.

Luke doesn’t turn around while opening the windows to acknowledge her presence, but he doesn’t need to.

Anne-Marie smiles while going to the staff room to change into the new uniform laid out on the counter.

It’s like she never **left**.

* * *

Angelo decides to be in-tel-li-gent, so intelligent he’ll be.

He isn’t quite sure were all the knowledge comes from, nor why he is suddenly aware of the development of his thought process. But does it truly matter in the end? He can distract himself more efficiently now!

Or that’s how he thought it’ll work. Rather, his plan backfired.

Before he decided to be smart, he would try out all sorts of fun things! Like licking Alfin ( _unhygienicyou’llgetsick_ ), poke the splinter ( _hurtssharpno_ ), try to roll out of the crib ( _howhighisitfallinghurts_ ).

Well, those fun things don’t sound so fun anymore...

Wait, how high _is_ the crib? Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back, and the cat was smarter for it or something.

Angelo peeks out of the crib, correction- _tries_ to peek out of the crib.

He can’t stand!

His eyes start to water, if only Mamma was here! Speaking of Mamma, didn’t she look not-so-happy lately? Well, he’ll just unmake the not-so-happy-ness, right? ( _It’s unhappiness._ Whatevers.)

Eerie calm spreads out inside him, and he observes the room systematically, looking for a suitable fauna to gift to his mamma. He doubts that the toybox will hold any, so he turns his head to the window instead.

It **leaves** him disappointed in a way nothing has disappointed before. There is nothing there to give, and the window was his last hope. How dare that window not co-operate? Didn’t it _feel_ his despair?

So Angelo did what only a human being at his age could do. ( _This does not solve-_ )

He throws a tantrum.

* * *

Luke admires the sight of a utterly speechless Anne-Marie and a bewildered, panicked Wolfgang.

“DON’T JUST _STAND_ THERE YOU BAS-s-sh… Help!”

He smirks very unhelpfully at the flushed face and murderous brown eyes, and slinks away with a convenient excuse about forgetting to check if the stove is off or something.

It is off.

He walks back with slow and cautious steps, hoping that whatever has inspired Angelo to a tantrum will be over.

It is not, but at least it is quieter than before, and his friends are glaring at him for **leaving**.

Looks like he’s going to wash the dishes for a week or two.

(It’s preferable to calming down toddlers.)

* * *

“Y’know,” the hot barkeep said. “You could always become a combat instructor if jobbing around gets boring.”

Wolfgang snorted in his beer. “Mhm...”

“I’m not kidding!”

“So?”

The barkeep sighed and rolled his eyes. “If you run a bar, you get this vibe, okay? And my vibe detector says,” he paused for dramatic effect. “You’re bored as fuck and stagnating.”

He then wriggled his eyebrows.

Wolfgang grunted in his beer and the barkeep dropped the topic, but an idea is already planted in his brain, and it is starting to form.

Dammit.

“Say, what’s your name?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Wolfgang glowered, and the barkeep just continued to smile.

Oh well.

Just as he turns to **leave** after paying, his ears catch it.

“Luke.”

Great. Now he knew who to hunt down if the idea gets him into trouble.

(A long time later, he realizes he won’t. He’s too attached and the guy too hot and smart and-

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit-)

* * *

All Federico wants right now is a shower, food, and sex.

...Maybe not in that order, but he could always have shower sex to save time.

Yeah that sounds like a plan. Now that he thought about it, didn’t Mafia Land have better security than most, even though it was neutral territory? But it was such a pain to fly there and back, also because they have to time the flying right and- ugh. **Leaving** this madness is harder done than thought.

Fine. No sex today.

He’ll just let out his frustration at the cook’s incompetence instead, but not enough to fire him or make him leave.

The food’s pretty decent compared to others he had, after all.

* * *

Today, Angelo is going on a trip with Wolfgang and Anne-Marie. He would have loved to **leave** with them, but barkeeping is continuous work, and Anne-Marie really needed a break from all those sexist assholes.

When the rag-tag group comes back, Angelo is sleeping, wearing a very adorable, flowery dress, and Wolfgang has a matching bandana. Anne-Marie is just cackling.

Luke decides not to question it, just like he doesn’t question the happy flop his stomach just did, and takes a picture.

He does the dishes for another two weeks.

(No regrets for this one either.)

* * *

Angelo stares blankly at the clinical white of the wall, while holding Alfin in a death grip. He appears to be breathing, but it’s only visible if you’re trained to see it.

Wolfgang is trained and experienced enough. Just as he is trained and experienced enough to notice an asshole in a too clean and pristine lab coat eyeing his traumatized brat speculatively from the corner of his eye.

His steps are purposely loud and audible enough to echo when he approaches Angelo and sits down next to him. The asshole jerks a bit and his eyes widen in shock before vanishing just a bit too quickly to be unnoticed by the head of staff walking by. Wolfgang and him exchange an understanding look before he starts a staff-cleansing, again, and he turns his attention to Angelo.

Who didn’t notice anything and just kept staring at the damn wall. Although his grip tightens and a minute shiver runs through him, before silent tears run down his cheeks.

“Hey brat, she’s stronger than most.” he pats him on the head.

He receives no reply, but he didn’t expect one in the first place, since he didn’t promise she’ll make it after all.

Luke arrives, and all three of them ready themselves for the waiting and hoping, huddled together like the patchwork family they are. Luke around Angelo, Angelo holding Alfin like a wish that might shatter, and he has an arm around them, and the other resting on a crowbar.

They keep hoping, but Wolfgang hopes just a little bit less.

He’s sick of the way he can feel the pulse just beneath his skin, sick of the way the cold sweat squeezes its way out of the pores painfully, sick of the staring yet unseeing eyes, sick of the minute breaths, sick of his brain simulating scenario after scenario, sick of the way uncertainty and worry run through his systems like an electric circuit, sick of-

He takes a deep and near-silent breath, and starts patrolling. 

* * *

“Are you her-”

“Yes.”

"She didn’t make it.”

Angelo stops crying and seems to collapse in himself, hands almost ripping his plush apart, Luke chokes, not on a sob, more like a scream, and Wolfgang-

Wolfgang readies himself for the start of the grieving process, and cancels all the missions he had planned to take and start.

His hands moves more than he wants, and he finds himself crowbar-less with a dolphin-plush in hand.

“IT ISN’T FAIR!” And the clang echoes through the hallway. The stool has a dent, but that is the extent of the damage.

“IT ISN’T FAIR!” The crowbar is thrown onto the ground, and Angelo is weakly punching the wall separating them and Anne-Marie’s corpse. His tiny fists only leaving color on the clinical white.

Wolfgang picks up the crowbar, and Luke picks the wailing boy up, murmuring soft-nothings into his ear.

Death is the epitome of fairness, but loss is the exact opposite.

It’s a lesson he has learned quite some time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody hate me yet? Yes? No?


	4. and diverse silences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Whoever said silences can't be diverse?"
> 
> Word Count: 2048

I am Angelo, and I lost Mamma.

I am not Angelo, and I lost my world.

But I am Angelo _now_.

Ugh.

The small body on the bed shifts under the blanket, and stills. (It should be bigger, it should be fatter, it should be stronger, it should have breasts, it should have-)

I read somewhere that babies have suffocated in their sleep due to something blocking their airways.

I am no baby. Not mentally, not physically- but maybe?

Maybe.

Am currently unable to cry myself to sleep, but I could always breathe ‘til exhaustion.

They would be so disgusted, but they aren’t _me_ . So if I meet them they could kindly fuck off.  
(...No, don’t leave me.)

* * *

Shock, denial, anger, guilt, depression, acceptance.

These are the stages of grieving, not necessarily in that order, and some stages are skipped, mixed, or relived, but acceptance is always the last. Probably. Who knows. Emotions are weird shit so anybody who quotes him on this are at their own risk.

Everyone that is long in the crime business knows these.

It doesn’t mean it helps.

Luke knows for sure. He’s a bartender, and bartenders on Mafia Land have at least gone through the basics of the psychology of human behaviour and motivational techniques- or learned from experience.

He has thrown himself into work when he’s not taking care of their patch-work family. When _had_ they become a family? A _thing_? She just sneaked in with her baby, got a promotion, dragged Wolfgang into babysitting… The traces are just as numerous as the unhealthy amounts of sugar she dumps into her tea.

A part of him is grumbling about denial and guilt, the rest is telling it to shut the fuck up. He’s allowed to do that, okay? At least he’s not pulling the disappearing stunt on them, shouldn’t he be allowed some privacy?

(He doesn’t hire another manager. He doesn’t serve Earl Grey’s.)

Wolfgang is a combat instructor and mercenary. He has regular psyche evaluations, because clients want to have somewhat predictable and who wants someone incapable due to a mental illness guarding them? Also, self-awareness is an useful trait.

It’s his self-awareness that tells him he has passed the initial shock stage and jumped to guilt. It’s partially his guilt that makes him even more protective of Angelo. It’s his guilt that invents scenario after scenario how he could have prevented that. It’s his self-awareness that is warning him that he could slip into a depression, again.

Oh _hell_ no. He’s needed right now, thank you very much. The depression can come back later. Please. Anne-Marie will resurrect herself from the dead, piece herself together, and _kill_ him if he doesn’t attend Angelo and make sure Luke does his dish-washing and have some extra cash-

Job. Right. That makes something wriggle in the back of his mind.

Job. Jooooooob. Mercenary. Hitman. Guard. Mafia Land Guard.

Mafia Land. Neutral. Explosion. Attack.

Attack on beach. Beach. Hilarity Highway.

Shit, is the admins are gonna be _pissed_ , especially at how ballsy the attackers are. Targeting one of the main-income sources? There’s gonna be an influx of requests.

He finds himself smiling grimly. Well, money and revenge never hurt anyone too bad. Or at least not his rag-tag group.

Conveniently, it also forces Luke to care after Angelo. Just speeding things up a bit, right?

(If Luke had telepathy and could share knowledge with his future self, he would have made that him _use his brain._ )

* * *

Angelo is worrying them, well only Luke now since Wolfgang is on a job. He seems to have forgone the denial stage completely, although it is partially understandable (having her shield you from an explosion and shrapnel might do that), and has slipped into depression after the anger phase, with anger lingering.

“Angelo, it’s time for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Neither are we, but we have to sustain our bodies to be healthy.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“So?”

The bundle on the bed curls even tighter in itself. “Mamma might have let me stay.”

Luke’s mouth corners tightens, cheapshots are encouraged, but this one is so transparent it’s borderline painful- if it wasn’t painful from the topic in itself. Alright, calm. He’s a brat. He’s a brat who lost his Mamma, okay? He’s _allowed-_ it is  _understandable_ , to be a brat. It doesn’t excuse it, though. It hurts, it fucking _hurts_ , alright?

“Keyword being might.” And he hauls the limp child over his shoulder. “Look, if you were more healthy, you would have an easier time being bratty and even more hurtful than you already are. Congratulations, yes, you have indeed hurt my feelings and now I feel terrible for being hurtful right back at- But that can _wait_ after we have finished breakfast.”

None of them break the grounding yet somehow shrill silence between them. Forget a wall, there’s a vacuum sucking any ideas of how to remedy, how to _apologize_ into a void that decided to manifest directly in their brains.

Then, an accidental glance of mutual discomfort is exchanged, and they break into hysterical laughter.

(They still don’t apologize, still have no idea or clue how. But it is lighter, almost easier, and they can almost navigate through a moment of small-talk.

The now salty breakfast is thrown away into the compost bin and they eat brunch in a awkward but relieved silence instead.)

“...This emotion-shit pile, I fucking swear- Ang- I- If I have to bring this quasi-sorted clusterfuck up in the session- shit.”

* * *

“Wolfgang, ready?”

The mercenary in question gives a grunt.

“You know damn well that it was rhetorical.” Luke countered, sipping his drink. “Don’t think that I haven’t noticed you guiding me into starting first, actual genuine thanks for that by the way, since Angelo is such a fucking _brat_ at times, so that you don’t have that much time to talk about your repressed feelings and guilt, and then excuse yourself with work.”

“It worked hella fine, though.”

“Only because I let it. I am not a barkeep for _nothing_ , you know? Also, topic changes are bad. Talk.”

“Bossy much?”

He sighs nonetheless though, and runs his fingers through his dark brown hair. Luke smiles lightly.

This is exactly how a healthy relationship of any kind should be like: Pressing the right buttons, letting them think they have successfully executed their master-plan, proving them wrong by showing that he knew it all along, rambling a bit to meet his daily quota, and then showing how _their_ master-plan was already calculated in _his_ master-plan.

Oh wait, he meant victories. Victories, yes. Relationships like that need therapy. There is a _reason_ why he shouldn’t drink too much. Just as much as he _knew_ that ridiculous villain phase was going to haunt him. Oh well.

Wolfgang stares into his beer, and takes a sip. That’s usually a good sign, so Luke doesn’t press. Yet.

“I... always get stuck in the guilt. I don’t think- I don’t _expect_ me to heal from any of that,” he whispers, avoiding the actual, hidden question of what his emotions are up to _now_ , but that’s alright. Baby steps are good.

“But I also don’t know how, the fucking concept is- you are supposed to be _healed_ from the shit. The acceptance? It’ll be there, with that typical dash of guilt. But I just never feel fucking _okay_ with them being dead. I hate, I _loathe_ that word _‘healed’_ so _damn_ fucking MUCH!”

He takes a deep breath the calm himself and lowers his steadily risen voice again. “...In this context at least.”

“I think that the only way someone would be okay with them being dead is to forget about them.” The blond croaks after the somewhat long, but not awkward, silence. “Which we obviously won’t.”

“No _shit_.” Comes the prompt snark, grey-blue eyes glaring over the rim of his beer glass. “ _That’s_ what you are going to fucking say?!”

Luke relents. “That was very stupid of me to say. But what I meant is that we are not supposed to forget them, we are supposed to think of them less frequently in our daily lives, and if we do, with fondness. Or at least that’s what the handbook said. It is a shitty handbook.”

Wolfgang clicks his tongue. “Amen to the underlying message of ‘Get your ass back to work sanely! And fast.’”

“Mhm. It was sprinkled all over the place in varying transparency. Civilians, no even the Vindiceless in general, are way better in this therapy-thing than we the big ‘n bad folks are.”

“The propaganda admins won’t be happy to hear _that_.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. Wolfgang turns so he gazes directly into Luke’s brown eyes and leans forward, their faces encroaching that zone-

Lips stretching to form a smug grin, eyebrows wriggling in an alarming way, blue eyes actually _twinkling what the fuck_. “Your turn.”

“...right.”

“Ha!” The fellow-pseudo-dad-whom-attractiveness-he-is-now-alarmingly-aware-of barks out a gleeful laugh that has tasted revenge- and Holy Shit do those canines look sharp right now. Like a wolf. _Wolf_ gang, ha. Haha. Wolf. Puppy.

Imagining a young and hella grumpy Wolfgang in a wolf-onesie is adorable as fuck and even more so hilarious.

“Luke? HELLO?! ...I fucking swear if you die by fucking _drowning_ in _your own_ goddamned-”

All in all, it was a productive session, and he also managed to waste enough time to avoid _his_ problems, namely the emotion-shit pile. (Wolfgang definitely wasn’t unaware, given his glowering.) Even if he is now very attracted to the fellow pseudo-dad, but who’s counting that? Certainly not his schedule. Or Angelo.

He also mentally notes to drink less next time. The consequences will bite him in the ass. Not that they already haven’t, but it is better not to tempt fate. Especially now that the emotion-shit pile has changed its status to one of a emotion-shit hill.

Godfuckingdamnit.

* * *

One thing that they all silently agree on is that, ironically, all those silences are the worst.

It’s not only those typical, _actual_ silences: The ones that you come home to, expecting her to glower at you, or the rather obnoxious way she used gleefully cackle in that surprisingly low pitch, nor the many improvised and not in-tune melody she hums for different occasions, and so many more noises and sounds she did, created, and caused.

There is that spatial silence that screams and hollers at that empty spot of that annoyingly loud and bold warmth and comfort and Anne-Marie, mental neon signs and arrows pointing, blinking, and shrieking that it is _wrong_ for her to be _gone_.

There is that bland silence that weeps and whispers in monotone, steadily drowning your motivation and consuming any other emotion than emptiness and guilt, reminding you, as if you needed that reminder, that everything would be better and louder if she was there.

There is that mocking, black hole-like silence at social interactions. That futile command to open your mouth to say something, anything, to fill the silence even if for only an instant, and the only thing that you hear is that what you heard before- nothing. The urgent want to comment, to be able to pretend you are okay; are _alright_  just to get an _idea_ of how it is like and was, and dismissing it as frivolous, as a lose-lose scenario where both results would have the most bitter after-taste.

There is that wicked silence that helps sustaining the other silences by ambushing, pouncing you just when you think you are getting through, and spit in your face, then rub it in with a slap and a few jabs to the gut. Whether by turning your head to ask her if she wants to steal cookies with you, by noticing you’re at the training field when you’re not supposed now that she’s not there, or by asking someone else to do the calculations and startle when they are finished too quickly, too clean, too different…

And they all silently agree on both the irony and the concluding hypothesis that their lives would probably be easier if it weren’t for that last kind of silence.

Whoever said that silences aren’t diverse?  
(And those who say that silence is just the absence of sound... They can consider themselves unwelcome by a now hostile and still traumatized family of three missing their fourth member.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As one might see in the tags, title, and summary, I have decided to edit around a bit. If chapters change, the recaps and quotes vanish, yes, that is indeed my wicked doing. Huehuehuehuehuehue...  
> [Chapter 1 is changed. I don't plan on changing other chapters (yet), but if I do, I'll notify you guys like this.]


	5. they will add up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A four snapshot filler, with the majority of them containing angst. I am drawing out grief because I can.

“One Earl Grey and cheesecake.”

The customer is just that, a customer. And this is a business. He has a job and an account to funnel money in.

Luke closes his eyes and smiles. “That’ll be four-sixty.”

He pays, Luke serves, the customer consumes and leaves.

“Come back again,” he doesn’t say, as well as “Fuck you.”

(It has been almost a year since he started serving Earl Grey again, but the dull ache still persists. Angelo took up Chamomile instead.)

* * *

 

Angelo comes home from his first day of preschool with his dads sitting at the kitchen table, awaiting his arrival. There is his mug of chamomile tea, Luke’s coffee mug, and Wolfgang’s beer bottle on the table. Only his is still steaming next to a tissue box.

“Angelo,” Wolfgang begins, clearing his throat. “We need to talk.”

“It’s not the sex talk, though,” Luke adds hurriedly. “More of an another one of those how-one-of-the-systems-works and this-is-how-it-relates-to-you talk. Remember Tuesday?”

Warily, Angelo sits down and slurps his tea obnoxiously as petty revenge for that memory.

**…**

Something niggles in the back of his mind as he takes in the sight of green, jagged electricity dancing in the palm of Luke’s hand. He then swivels his head to once again observe the angry, red ball of wispy fire bobbing up and down on Wolfgang’s palm.

The middle of his forehead almost niggles, making him frown. Everything is so disturbingly familiar, the sense of déja vu nudging to make him do... something. What that something was, he had no inkling of an idea.

He takes the offered quartz and squints at it, willing some kind of energy and heat to rush into it, but Wolfgang stops him almost immediately.

“Stop looking so constipated,” he orders, handling this as just another lesson. “Flames are an extension of yourself, and the first time is one of the hardest. Do you want to be dumped from your bed while sleeping?”

“But it’s a Dying Will Flame! You just said-”

He nods. “Yes, but now you are not summoning this with the power of adrenaline and desperation, you’re trying to coax it out and gain a permanent companion until the day you die. Literally.”

“Well, if you put it like _that_...” Angelo drawls, but feels his nose crinkle in apprehension. He tried to smile at the clear crystal while clenching it so tightly his knuckles turn white, feeling very silly and ridiculous while doing so.

Finally, Luke intervened before Wolfgang could groan and destroy Angelo’s fragile motivation processing.

“Angelo, I have a method that is _not_ the healthiest,” he says, stressing the negative, unable to look either of them in the eyes. “But it will show you your Primary Flame. As stated previously, it is incredibly rare to only have one Flame Affinity, but it is even rarer to manifest more than one. This is for a good reason, because unlocking to Flames at once can be quite… volatile.”

Since nobody seemed to dissuade him, he continued his explanation. “While it is never guaranteed, using my method raises the chances of that happening. If you, with some luck, only manage one, it doesn’t mean that you only have one affinity. It just means it is buried deeper and you’ll need a considerable metaphorical amount of trauma, shock, or the like to call it forth.

“You probably have an inkling of what is going to happen, and I assure you that we are going to train you so that you don’t have to go through it every time you want to activate your Flame.”

Wolfgang looks quite grim at the end of Luke’s lecture, so Angelo assumes he knew of this beforehand. And since they would never suggest this if it is supremely damaging, he nods.

“Okay,” Luke breathes shakily. “Here it goes. It’s a lot of vague feely-wheely dabbling. But there are our Will, so…” He breaks of his rambling, and inhales again. When he speaks, again, he does so quietly and with such intensity Angelo couldn’t tear his gaze away from his solemn expression.

“Find the place where you feel the rush of blood and thrumming energy when you feel a particularly strong emotion. Find the place where you are lifted by relief and bliss, the ring where the hook of paradise pulls you up. That place a focal point to you, and it is perfectly alright if there are multiple places acting as one, or places only applying for some of the criteria. You should feel something shifting inside you, remembering the different times it almost woke up during your lowest slumps and highest cheer. It doesn’t have to be that constricting feeling in your chest, because it often isn’t physical.

“You have to direct your attention to the shifting inside you. What do those shifts remember? Maybe the exploding shrapnel and shock, or the force Anne-Marie forced you into the sand to protect you. It could be the horror of realization, or the desperation of trying to move and stop her. There are many options and even more combinations. The grief tearing at your thoughts, the guilt dragging you down. The clinical detachment of lying in bed and wanting everything to end. The rage of wanting the world to suffer with you. Which is it? What have I forgotten to mention?”

Nobody says anything for awhile, and the tissue box is finally used and emptied.

When Angelo moves for his own share of tissues, he finally notices quartz shards digging into his skin, tainting the white fabric red. He looks down, and realizes that they are tinted blue and smeared with blood, the stinging pain that should be there muted.

His dads lead him silently as the dead to the bathroom mirror, and his blue eyes and forehead are aflame.

There are no cheers when he can make out a dripping blue Flame through his tears, finally breaking into sobs through the numb fog of almost-scars and festering wounds being ripped open again.

For the next two weeks Angelo was excused from pre-school, and the archives of Love Lane being torn apart by two frantic fathers. The Vongola section, while hard to access, was discreetly snuck into.

* * *

 

Having knocked on the door, Wolfgang takes a step back and fidgets for the first time in years. But there is something big and life changing waiting on the line, the more subtle kind that will shift the bones and change the way one’s heart soars. Not yet, but this will hopefully lead to it. Of course, the aforementioned can only happen if what is going to happen now will-

The door swings open, revealing his six-year-old kid.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve never been better,” he croaks through his dry throat. “But Angelo, what do you think about Luke and me making it... official?”

Blue eyes met his own greyer ones, the moment prolonged and pulled apart like a rubber band until Wolfgang thought it would snap and he’d explode.

Finally, Angelo smiles and says: “I am the only flower boy, right?”

“Who else?”

He shrugs, and then stares into space. The vacant stare is broken when he flings himself at him, wrapping around his leg like a particularly stubborn koala.

“Oi! The fuck is happening?”

“You must be really insecure if you thought I’d say no,” Angelo laughs, the sound muffled into his thigh. “Therefore you must need hugs.”

In response, Wolfgang rolls his eyes so hard it hurts.

(“Do get me some earplugs for your honeymoon, yes?”

Luke almost spits his coffee over the dinner. “You little shit, couldn’t you wait until I finished?”

Their brat laughs, free and full of mirth, and all was good in the world.)

* * *

 

Angelo handles formal education as well as he handles customers.

Seemingly attentive while mentally off to la la land, yet still managing to fulfill orders with a dimpled smile that screamed controlled apathy for those who knew him well enough. Luke has trained him well.

But, he can’t take all the credit, can he? Retail brings out mechanisms that training never quite manages to conform into one neat box. Actually, that can be applied to society in general.

My, Luke muses. He’s quite philosophical today. Something is going to happen, and it will either be very good or very, very bad. There’s no inbetween.

There’s never an inbetween, not really, when it comes to gut feeling.

(It turns out to be very, very bad. Of course.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I terribly effed up the time span between the updates.
> 
> I know. In my crappy defense, I had written the chapter after this one, but it hadn't made sense content wise, so I had to write out this snapshot-y filler. It took me, as you noticed, quite some time. And even more attempts to re-write it and re-re-writing and deciding the old one was better, and then rolling with the old one. After fleshing it out a bit more, but yeah.
> 
> So there. A very crappy defense you can punch a hole through with a flick of your finger for the late update. Please don't murder me.


	6. to be a catalyst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very, very bad thing that was stated last chapter is revealed. This is the start of the result of said very, very bad thing.

No one expects to be a victim of misfortune.

“Wolfgang, I’m closing.”

An affirmative grunt is heard from the gray Nokia, the sound of footsteps on asphalt continuing without a pause. “Don’t try to catch-up, be prepared to go.”

The call ends with a simultaneous flick of the wrist on both ends.

Luke clicks his tongue, he isn’t that amateur-ish.

“Motherfuckers.”

The harsh midday sunlight refracts from the humidity, making everything seem as if it were underwater. He hates it when he can’t see clearly from the H2O in his eyes. He despises that he isn’t a combat type, that he denies such simple things from himself. He knows that spiral of self-hate, it is simple now, but it grows too easily. And he can’t even have his mind under contr-

“ _ Motherfuckers. _ ”

* * *

 

The thing about kidnapping is that they are surprising; A bolt out of the blue.

Oregano is entirely unimpressed.

The Estraeno might have gone into hiding, but apparently they still need fresh test subjects. And their desperation is evident with their sloppily covered up tracks. A too boring and clean hospital grunt here, a too shrewd shopkeeper there… Ugh. As one of the fellow Mist Users she is ashamed.

“Boss, activity at the intersections of the Body Borough and Hilarity Highway, 132 degrees 4.”

He hummed. “So near to the Bounty Boulevard? Ballsy, but clever.”

Her smile stayed pleasant under her mental control. “Permission to-”

“Yeah, yeah. Do your thing.”

Oregano wants to scream. Iemetsu is a strong frontliner, so what the fuck is he managing the Grape Division of the CEDEF? Oh, that’s right. He needed an excuse to have more work. Asshole workalcoholics are the worst.

The truck weaves through the alleyways, and stops at an apothecary. A  _ pharmacy _ . How the admins didn’t notice anything during their checks is beyond her.

She is going to have  _ words _ in her report. Lots of them, prepped by a dictionary or three. Boss wants more work? He’s fucking welcome.

“Ground Pepper, get your ass here at 136 degrees Four. Update will follow.”

“Ma’am!”

A shift of displacement in the air followed by a flicker of indigo, and she is gone.

* * *

 

These are the times were Wolfgang wishes he was a Rain or Lightening.

He could just ‘harden’ the air or slow down the water molecules into ice, and then just be able to move into aerial combat or travel without any distractions. Or something. He never actually saw someone do any of that, since it must require a fuckton of Flame Control, and nobody has that amount of patience for the training.

Sadly, he only gets to burn shit to smithereens, superficial destruction. True damage is emotional, as he had learned and experienced.

“Request for retrieval mission, granted.” The monotone voice sounds from his speaker.

His black mobile is swiftly stored into his leg pack with the other miscellaneous things that would get in the way in a fight, wallet and key included.

People and shops pass away in a blur, only the route in his mental map keeps him from crashing into buildings. He doesn’t like upping his speed at that rate for reasons like these. What if old age sets in early and he remembers wrong? What if there are enemies? It is unexpectedly easy to take advantage of him in this state. Supernatural speed is only useful if your brain can adapt well enough, but alas, he is not one of those.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself further. Wolfgang is known to be an moronic risk taker for a reason, and he isn’t planning to prove them wrong.

(When it comes down to it, he can only be himself in all of his idiotic stormy glory, and that has to be enough.)

* * *

 

Somewhere, some _ when _ , he read that kidnapping was summed up in five words: Wham. Bam. In the van.

His experience was  _ more _ than that.

It was waking up in the morning with a pounding headache and a throat parchier than parchment, which didn’t even make  _ sense _ . It was taking aspirin with a glass of water that was suddenly colder than it was before bed, even though it came from the same bottle and was on the nightstand all day and night. It was looking at an annoying customer afte annoying customer and thinking:  _ Ugh _ . It was looking at just another annoying customer and thinking:  _ Ug- _ before noticing that she smelled too nice to be here in this district, and plastering a happier smile on.

It was taking that customer’s order and then waking up with a screaming headache. Maybe it was even a migraine, Angelo isn’t completely sure how the terminology change is supposed to feel.

It was also noticing that he was in a room full of crying, dead-eyed, and/or bloodied kids, and loudly thinking:  _ Fuck? _

Angelo has a cold and a new experience to fail at the ‘Never-Have-I-Ever’ game. He rates it -5 out of 5 stars and recommends to make the life of the cause a living hell.

(And he might have died a little more inside when he spied a little boy with spiked indigo hair, having the bandages of his left eye crusted with blood.)

Yes, fuck.

* * *

 

“ _ Why _ do you want to delay ‘us busting in there and kicking their ass’, precisely?” She asks, adding a belated “Boss.”

“Well,” he pauses. “It might has to do with the fact that there are greedier slimes on our side, and unfortunately, they make very good sweet drinks. In fact, lemon is a very popular flavour.”

A longer pause.

“...minion.” Iemetsu adds, and hangs up.

Oregano belatedly realizes that her boss has not only warned her of one of the no-yes-kinda-allied famiglia, but also pranked her.

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

He then sends her a meme consisting of his son’s baby pictures and “...MINION” in bold font, and that consideration dies a painful, asphyxiating death.

And then some asshole speeds  _ through _ her, and were it not for her instinctive dematerialization spurred on by ‘Oh shit’, she would be deader than Iemitsu attempt at memeing.

* * *

 

“Look,” he tries to explain to the fuming blond leaking indigo vapour of death. “I am sorry for running through you, but my son has been kidnapped and I am on an  _ approved _ hunt to turn stones over and raise hell.”

Angry-mist-blond adjusts her glasses and stays silent.

Wolfgang is desperate and takes that as a confirmation for… something. “Is that lady-speak for I’m off the hook or what.”

“No.”

“Fuck you, I’m on a fucking hunt for my  _ son _ .”

“ _ I _ have orders not to ‘bust in there and kick their ass’,” Blondie responds in a professional tone, but the  _ fuck you too _ is heavily implied. ”And I assume that means preventing others to do the same. Initiative and all that.”

He bares his teeth. “Well, I don’t have to listen to your fucking boss, because this is  _ approved _ by the admins-”

She pulls out a very famous business card, and his heart drops. He can’t afford to antagonize the Vongola CEDEF, even if this is neutral ground.

“...are you sure we can’t negotiate? Can I call someone over who is better than me at this?”

Blondie shrugs, and that is an affirmation as good as any. Wolfgang’s phone is already on speed dial.

As they wait for Luke, he affords himself to let his mind wander.

If only he had personally taken care of that too pristinely white hospital shlob, or trained Angelo more, then he wouldn’t be in this mess.

His wrists crack a bit as he flexes them over his head, and he eyes the spot at his ring finger where his simple golden band usually resides.

It’ll be okay, it must. Otherwise CEDEF wouldn’t have gotten themselves involved. This will help with Angelo’s chances, chances that will be gone or decrease if he ignores Blondie. This will be over soon, and after this is over, he’ll lie with Luke and Angelo on the master bed. They’ll huddle under the blanket and Angelo will complain about the crumbs from the chips Luke is consuming. Alfin will be used as his headrest, and they can listen to the rain that has been building up since last week. Maybe Luke will also finally open up about his sister he has clammed up about, but probably not during their Huddle Time.

‘Yes,’ he reminds himself. ‘That’s your goal. Now, what can you do?’

Wolfgang can handle guns, burn shit so hard that there aren’t even ashes left behind, and can do hand-to-hand. He is good in holding his beer and squishing his emotions into the ‘To Ignore’ box. He has a few valuable connections, has the permission from the admins to hunt down the source from the recent strings of kidnappings since it gives them a bad rep and he is personally involved.

But he cannot, in good conscience, negotiate for his son’s survival if there is someone better.

And so, he continues to stretch and lightly warm-up until his husband arrives, tells the thrumming of his heart and a flame so red it hurts to wait for the timing.

Wolfgang hates waiting, but that’s okay.

It must be.

* * *

 

Angelo is not a subtle person, but neither is he a flashy one. Actually, he has no clue in which part of the spectrum he would belong to.

He only knows he doesn’t belong  _ here _ , and he has no intention on being put through more hell, especially the clinical horror movie version. And there is someone here with the potential to prevent that.

“Hey,” he addresses the future-mist. His hairdo does not resemble a pineapple, but it is hard considering the hair is choppy, unkept, and has traces of drugs and blood. “I want to get out of here, you want to get out of here. Let’s do that together.”

The senior sends him an impressively unimpressive look of doubt. “Why me?”

“Because,” he pauses. He should have thought this through. “Because I can slow things down  _ really _ well, and you have this scheming-vibe. Schemers usually have another additional power.”

He stares, even more wary now. Maybe Angelo has fucked this up badly. “I’m a Mist.”

“I’m a Rain, if you haven’t figured it out yet. I’m very calming, probably.” Angelo grins sheepishly, and  _ hopes _ .

The Mist still seems wary, but there is no hostility. In fact, Angelo thinks that his lip corners have twitched upwards. But he has also blinked, so who really knows? This isn’t one of those moments when the author puts in not-delusions to make the stand-offish character seem charmed, this is reality with abused and violated mafia spawn trying to make everything stop  _ hurting _ so much.

So, maybe he needs to feed him more information to reassure him. “I also know some hand-to-hand, but I don’t know it that well. I am also being tracked down by a mercenary and a barkeeper right now, so that might help our chances.”

Finally, the boy cracks a smile. It is not a happy one, and Angelo recognizes the similarity between the one he wore not so long ago in the mirror. It is a broken one with little to lose and bone-deep tiredness. It is similar, however impossible to be the same, to the one his family has when they feel the sudden gaping absence of mama.

It is a smile from someone who wants to heal but doesn’t know how, who wants it to stop, and something shifts inside him. How can a mere offer to join forces and escape make such an expression come forth? He doesn’t know and certainly won’t ask. He can only take the alliance as formed, smile back, and hope for the best.

“You can call me Angelo. Do you want me to give me yours or should I choose something to address you with for the meantime?”

“The latter,” he misses without a beat.

“Pineapple, then.” Angelo decides and cackles at the sheer surprise on his face. “I am fond of the flavour, and your hairdo will look like one when I have dragged you somewhere to fix it.”

‘Pineapple’ scrunches his nose. It gives the distinct impression that he has smelled the consequences of his decision. Probably something called ‘Eau de Regret’.

“Then you’re Shrubbery, because you’re small and annoying like one.”

“Wow, that  _ sure _ was a well layered insult.”

“I know,  _ shrub _ .”

Maybe antagonizing him wasn’t such a good idea.

* * *

 

**ONMAKE: Sticky-Icky Business**

The ice-cubes float in his Lemon Craz, clinking against his glass as he swivels it.

Craz, the newest trend when it comes to carbonated soft drinks. Due to its pleasing balance of sweet-, sour-, and just a hint of tartness it has managed to keep the profits and popularity high despite the different range in prices for the different socio-economic classes. As far as he could tell, there was no true difference between the sets except for the outer design and longer lasting bubbles that bore similarity to champagne.

Still, people will gossip if the Vongola didn’t buy the most expensive set. If the famiglia couldn’t afford to flaunt their wealth in the little details, then what else has been slacking off?

Federico throws himself back onto his bed with a huff, after he has read the files, his fondness for Craz has diminished severely.

Craz was a business that was started by a small member of the Tomaso Famiglia, who then got a taste of the powers his superiors wield, and things just went downhill from there.

The Tomaso Famiglia is known for its violent change and struggle of powers in their history, although there have been peaceful successions. The small member and founder of Craz has apparently gathered forces to start another chapter in the books, and decided to deal with the Estraeno.

A sigh, he liked Craz so much, but alas. On the other hand, does this really make a difference whether he drinks it or not? The rhythmic tapping of nail against crystal is heard. He wanted to bond with Xanxus over throwing their drinks or something, maybe now is the time...

Because Craz’s involvement with the Estraeno has just been found recently, and the CEDEF are spread, while not thinly, all over the place. Which is their job as a semi-independent intelligence organization, but that’s the thing.

As the almost-separate half of Vongola, they can move against their questionable ally with less repercussions. But their best combat members are currently invested on higher ranked missions- this barely qualifies as semi-high due to the ally in question, who is squinted at from a safe distance anyway.

Ah, to hell with it. He downs the lemonade as if it is a shot and slams it down on the table so hard that it shatters, the half-melt ice cubes clinkering once again.

He’ll think about business after he has slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I can do this with the semi-regular updates...? *looks meaningfully towards the sky* Maybe.


	7. sometimes you have to hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Estraeno advance with their schemes, a fruit and weed are being cultivated together, and the narration changed pronouns and tense for good reasons, I swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, but I CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS ANYMORE!
> 
> What do I mean by "THIS"? Writing in present tense. I have no idea what possessed me to start the fic in present tense, but it's currently fucking over my writing process without a sweat.
> 
> Also, the POV switch in the chapter is there for a reason.
> 
> Sorry for the dramatic inconvenience, please carry on reading. It's an Estraeno chapter, you should have an idea on what awaits you.

Pain.

Knives and scalpel cut through skin into flesh, exposing blood and innards that should never feel the coldness of the stale air. Yet it did, the unnatural temperature difference causing him to freeze as they inject something into him via syringe.

The operation lights blinded him, and for that he is thankful. Nobody really needed to  _see_  what is happening along with  _feeling_  it.

Chuckles and gleeful giggling reached his ears as he pants under the exhaustion not to cry. Angelo is surprised at his own resistance. After all, he usually cries easily. Especially during movies. For Vindice's sake, he cried during Bambi! How is he  _not_  a crier?

But then a hand covered by plastic gloves grab into him, and he strained against the metal clasps as he screams.

He tried to grab for the weeping Flame in his mental eye, but his futile grasping meet nothing in the void of non-Blue.

"Surprised?"

Angelo bit down on his lip in order not to respond and aggravate his tormentors further.

"We cannot let Flames interfere with the results, you see," said the speaker. "It's nothing personal. Everyone gets the same special treatment,  _Vongola_  or not.

"Surprised again? Don't you love that feeling of the unexpected? The Vongola section has the basic trigger alarms for sneaking  _in_ , but there is nothing basic about them when they are taken  _out_. Of course, those not-so-basic alarms are ignored when the Famiglia is… preoccupied. Bastardly resources pale in comparison to a coup d'etat, non? That is where we come in!"

And so they descended like vultures, circling around his weakening body, searching for any indications and signs of him giving in, what made him tick and how.

He tasted blood and bile and the sensation of a raw throat.

He tasted defeat as he cried, and it was bitter.

The air is used, and is permeated with the smell of copper and sanitation.

At the very least, he did not cry from a surrender.

(" _Did you_ cry _?" Demanded Pineapple, ignoring the other kids eavesdropping in the room. Already, their numbers have reduced._

 _Angelo didn't trust himself to speak, and decided with great effort to do a 'so-so' gesture. He did cry, but he didn't_ cry _. He didn't beg for relief, didn't offer what little and precious he had in order to receive it._

 _Pineapple understood and didn't comment further, covering his trembling hand with his own. No further conversation passed between them as they just… existed next to each other._ )

* * *

Fear.

Tears squeezed through his closed eyelids as they suppressed his Blue again for the untold time, the frustration of the non-Blue, the useless void inside him growing.

For a few moments a day, which went by far too quickly, he could summon Blue with the last shreds of his energy. Flickering tears and dripping sparks numbing the pain, and if he closed his eyes, Angelo could see the image of the apartment in his mind. He could pretend he was lying in bed and that the light shining through his shut eye was that of the sun's. Luke or Wolfgang would come in any minute now-

A sob escaped him as they marked a dot on  _that_  spot on his forehead, afraid of the actions that will follow. What if they make his tingle disappear forever? What if they somehow manage to harvest it? Oh god, they will steal it from him and use it against his dads!

"Oh dear," said a female voice this time. "We didn't even start yet."

But with that, they did.

(" _Did you cry?" The question came, casual as if he was commenting on the weather they didn't know about. But if it was one thing that Angelo knew was keeping him grounded, it was the casualness of the routine._

_With even more effort as the first time and the times after, he attempted to raise his hand._

_Pineapple seemed impatient however, and covered it before he initiated the gesture. "I get it, shrub."_

_Angelo's eyes crinkled and the corner of his lips quirked involuntarily, and with no small amount of relief did he discover that he never did forget how to simply smile because he had reason to be happy._ )

* * *

"Did you cry?"

For once, the start of a small improvement to come, Angelo smiled with less effort and answered "Nah."

In addition, they could make the effort to link their arms together but chose to lean on each other and the wall behind them instead, hands covering one another. Although the non-Blue blocked his attempts, he sometimes managed to call forth the very flickers and beginnings of the Rain Flame. Both of them benefited.

Over half of the room's occupants were gone.

* * *

But things changed, the routinity of pain and not-pain was broken as the pace picked up, until one time, Pineapple didn't ask and simply covered his hands over his own. The scientists finally made him scream his throat raw and bloody, and then force-fed him medicine for his sore throat. In case of future infiltration missions, rough voices that didn't match the appearance will ring alarms.

Angelo forced his arms up and laid two trembling fingers on where he presumes the adam apple of Pineapple will develop. A watery glow of Blue on the fingertips, and his figure slumped against the wall again, smaller than before. He couldn't move and link his own arm back when Pineapple did so, and the senior Mist snorted at his pursed lips. At least he now gained the strength to snort from his sacrifice.

He voiced his thoughts and Pineapple inclined his head in agreement, and that was that.

There were four more fellow subjects besides them left.

* * *

It is not the pain as much as the tiredness that gnawed on their very aching bones and throbbing insides. Their minds dulled despite their efforts, their experiences resulting in them drawing comfort from presence alone. They could walk towards each other if they wanted to and lean against each other again, but that would hurt too much.

The last four didn't pull through with us through this change of pace.

* * *

No one realizes the beginning of an end, for the point of no return is debatable and subjective. Maybe it's the process, the inertia of movement and progress. Maybe there is a fixed point.

Or maybe, Angelo shouldn't delve into a mental philosophical debate in the process of going under the knife. But it's a habit that distracts, and distractions are welcome.

A liquid is dripped on a cut they made, and it he feels as if something is ripping him apart from the seams, starting from his forehead, on that tingle-spot. His strings are teared apart, fabric- or is that skin? rips with an ugly sound, and the liquid forces the non-Blue inside him to expand and grow. There is that painful pressure behind his eyes, a river pounding against a rock face of a cliff, chipping it away bit by bit. He screamed as with a final roar, the river of non-Blue smashes a hole in the abused rock face and flows even further, its mass squeezing through the opening. The final seams snap under the pressure as his tattered body is flooded.

Angelo cried and begged for them to stop, but the endless amount of non-Blue continues to pour into him from his cut in the forehead. He feels himself being mentally dissected under the fascinated gazes of the monsters. Tears run down his cheeks as he smells and tastes the copper. He registered the frantic scribbling and excited murmurs under his own screaming, as well as the faint cracking of the metal constraints under his strain.

Slowly, so very agonisingly slowly, did the flow of non-Blue start to abate. From a river to a stream to a pour to a rhythmic drip. It is a mystery in itself how it all managed to fit, but the utter exhaustion does not allow for any further contemplation. Then, finally, a tiny drop caused the last ripple of the now huge reservoir of non-Blue.

A silence, time stopped and held its breath as everything stilled. The scientists' movements projecting disappointment, and Angelo felt a tired satisfaction of their unknown objective not being reached. The non-Blue rippled slightly and touched a network of spider web-like cracks of the stone, and a flicker of color emerged.

The cracks grew in size, a slow groan of stone against stone as the resulting rubble fell into the lake, causing the familiar color he missed to appear in the splashes. The corner of his eyes burned as he wanted to shed tears on the sight of Blue growing from the splotches of black on the lake, the crumbling cliff speeding up the process. Somehow he felt cheated, that the Blue he was waiting for just lied underneath, waiting for him to realize.

With another roar of stone against stone, the entire cracked rock spur crashed down and uncovered the non-Blue into Blue. As the last bubbles of non-Blue disappeared, blackness, the one of unconsciousness, overtook and everything faded from view.

* * *

I awoke but I could not open my eyes. They didn't clean me as thoroughly as before, no doubt the results of the experiment disappointing them. Questionable liquids (but luckily not the yellow kind) probably dried up and left my eyelids stuck together. With great care, I pulled them apart and scratched the scabs of dead skin and salt dust away.

It was then that I noticed that it didn't take effort at all. There was no screaming of muscles and trembling limbs. I flexed by arms and then winced, okay, not that much of a miracle. Maybe it was a healing agent they wanted to try out?

Supporting my weight on the wall, I stood up and then walked over to Pineapple, who regarded me with open envy and larger amounts of well-hidden relief. Why would I know he felt relief at my sight when it was well-hidden? Yet, I felt no unease. My tingle spot on the forehead, the pompously named 'Third Eye', didn't alarm me and additionally didn't seem like a separate entity from my body anymore. Instead I felt as if my very being was  _deepened_. They definitely did experiment with the Vongola Intuition, but since when did that come with a healing bonus?

"You were gone for three."  _Three experiments_. I missed out our three units of time measurement, and I felt like crying when I think I experienced the echoes of worry and grief he went through. My eyes burned as I moved to hug him.

"It seems like they are trying out something new and I was the first."  _Your turn will also come and I will experience the same terror of not-knowing, although it will be lesser because I know you will be alive._  He stiffly hugged me back, trying to relax in order not to tremble as much.

I sat down in front of him and softly grabbed him by the shoulders. "Give me a moment." The enormous amount of Rain Flames I have is ridiculous and I might as well put them to good use. In my mind's eye, I scooped out a handful of the watery fire and pictured it splashing over Mukuro, with only a minute amount over his head and face. I'd rather not tamper with the finer and delicate nature of brain chemistry on my only companion.

His indigo eyes widened, and he breathed out softly as hopefully the pain and aches weakened. I then moved next to him and linked our arms. "Hey, comrade  _in arms_ ," I wiggled my eyebrows, the good events skyrocketing my mood. "Do you know how minds work?"

"Shrub," he deadpanned. "Even if I didn't want to, I'm a Mist. It's thrust upon us and half-baked instinct. Of course in my case, my potential and instincts are amazing."  _And that landed me here._

I nodded, scratching my cheek. "Well, ever since waking up, I feel different." His jaw stiffened, and I quickly reassured him. "It's a good different? I mean, it feels like I'm supposed to have always been this way."

He was still frowning. "Anything else you can add before I take a look?"

The moment of hinted truth and revelations was upon me to verbalize. Except the reincarnation part, of course. "Uh, they kinda poked around the 'Third Eye' area. Now it feels like a part of me instead of a connected useful tingle."

Realization flashed across his features, followed by confusion and indignant anger. "The fuck would a clam be here?!"

"I'm not and never met any. According to  _them_ , they were also too busy to investigate," I explained, imagining to flick a few drops of Rain Flames in his direction in order to calm him down. It probably helped, because he simply pursed his lips and contemplated something.

Finally, he spoke up. "Am I correct to assume that your amounts of Flame increased?"

I nodded, and he sighed softly. "Then it would be even more unwise for me to look. In addition to your Hyper Intuition probably acting up, it might be backed up by your Flame. It would be unsafe for both of us."

"Oh well, Pineapple." I tried to lighten the mood. "It's okay, my mind was too special for you to visit anyways. Maybe you'll be skilled enough when we have gotten your haircut and it amplifies your powers."

He sneered, mock-glaring at me. "Too  _special_ , yes. Very special."

"It's the good kind of special!"

"Of course, shrub." He condensingly patted my head. "If you say so."

I laughed, and silence fell between us. "Do you think our room arrangements will be changed?"

He didn't respond for a few moments, but when he did, he growled out his answer. "If you jinxed it I'll break into your mind."

"I would then deserve it, don't you think?"

Pineapple sighed long-sufferingly. "There's no point in arguing with you."

"Pineapple… Would it be a date?"

"Oh my Vindicare, shrub," he gritted his teeth. "Kindly be silent."

" _Kindly_?" I pointed out. "People still say that? Should I do that too?"

"Shrub."

"Yessir." Pineapple can be scary indeed.


End file.
